Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  But every time she looked at Elise, she heard the ring of Kai’s hand connecting with her cheek. Ronja lifted her chin and walked on.

  “Here.”

  She crashed back into her body as Elise motioned to a doorway to their right. Lost in her thoughts, she had not noticed that this particular corridor was entirely deserted.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked, anxiety welling inside her.

  “No. Trié.”

  “You’re going to work at the trié.” Ronja rounded out the sentence. Nausea rolled over her as she wondered how often Elise was beaten. She sighed, then raised her fist to her brow to salute her.

  “No!” Elise whispered harshly, catching her wrist. “No.”

  “Why?” Ronja asked, bewildered.

  “No!” she snapped again.

  The Anthemite raised her eyebrows, taken aback by her sudden ferocity.

  Elise shook her head, her heavy hair swishing back and forth. “Tovairin,” she said, tapping her hand to her brow and chest. “Arexian.” She checked around the hall, then crossed her fingers and pressed them to her heart. Before Ronja could react, she wheeled around and careened away.

  For a split second, the Siren held still. Then she crossed her fingers and placed them over her heart. May your song guide you home, she thought as Elise winked out of view.

  Ronja cut her eyes to the side. The door watched her reproachfully. She straightened her sweater and tucked her curls over her ear. Before she could lose her nerve, she grasped the doorknob. She froze, her knuckles whitening around the metal. She steadied her breathing, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.

  The room was small and intimate with a roaring stone fireplace. A polished wooden dining table stood at its center. Two silver platters sealed with reflective domes sat on opposite sides of the table. Proud crystal goblets filled with wine waited beside them. In the far right corner, a bookshelf sagged beneath the weight of several dozen books. An armchair upholstered in dark red cloth and embroidered with a golden letter A squatted beside the case.

  Alezandri.

  “You came.”

  Ronja nearly jumped out of her skin. In the low light, she had failed to notice Darius enter through the open doorway opposite her. He was dressed in a fresh button-down and a deep green sweater. His gray hair was slicked back in a manner that did not suit him, and silver rings glinted from his fingers. His expression was stuck in limbo between anticipation and fear.

  She could identify with the latter.

  “Uh . . . ” Every word Ronja had ever known fled her brain.

  “Come in,” Darius said quickly, beckoning with a jeweled hand.

  “Right.” She stepped over the threshold and shut the door. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. How far was the table from the door? How many seconds would it take to flee if this man was not who he claimed to be? Skitzing hell, she should have brought Roark with her; he had offered at least three times.

  “Please, sit.”

  Ronja glanced up. Darius stood by the table, watching her with quiet fascination. Her hands twitched at her sides. She moved to put them in her pockets, realized she did not have pockets, and clasped them before her. “Thanks,” she managed to say. She started toward the seat nearest the door, but he beat her to it. He pulled the chair out and gestured for her to sit. Ronja opened her mouth. Looked at him. Looked at the chair. Then sat. Darius pushed her in smoothly and rounded the table.

  “When Easton told me about you, I didn’t believe him,” he admitted, plucking his folded napkin from the table and spreading it in his lap. Ronja copied him hastily. “But now that I see you . . . ” He shook his head, a marveling smile unfolding on his lips. “You have to be. You look just like Layla.”

  A punch in the gut would have been more welcome. Ronja cleared her throat. “Right.”

  “I see some of me in there, too,” Darius went on. “I had more freckles in my younger days. You have my eyes, too.” His smile widened, revealing a shallow dimple in his cheek. “You definitely got your beauty from your mother.”

  Ronja flushed. The memory of Layla rose in her mind like a specter, jaundiced and snarling, defiled by the mutt blood roaring through her veins.

  “How did you come here?” he inquired. He lifted the silver dome from his plate and set it aside. Ronja swallowed a gasp. Steam curled from a pristine slab of fish. Cooked vegetables of yellow, orange, and green mixed with brown rice were heaped two inches high, and three pieces of fresh bread leaned against each other like toppled dominos.

  “Is this all right?” Darius asked, his voice teeming with anxiety. “Do you not like fish? I can assure you, Tovairins know their way around a swordfish. Best in the world, or so they say.”

  “N-no.” Ronja cleared her throat, wondering what the hell a swordfish was. “I mean, yes, I like fish. Fish is great.”

  “Oh, good.” Darius picked up his utensils and set about cutting the white meat into smaller pieces. “Please,” he said, gesturing at her covered platter with his fork. “Eat. You must be hungry. I doubt you got the chance to eat breakfast this morning after your . . . altercation with Kai.”

  His tone was not accusatory, but Ronja found herself blushing all the same. “Roark brought me lunch,” she explained, lifting the dome from her plate and setting it aside with a muted clang. She had been provided the same meal as her host. Aromatic steam pricked her nostrils, making her stomach complain noisily. She hoped Darius did not hear it.

  “How did you come to Tovaire?” he asked again.

  “A boat,” Ronja replied lamely. Darius took a bite, his eyebrows lifting a fraction of an inch. She looked down at her plate as her nerves gripped her insides. “I mean, Jonah and Larkin brought us from Revinia. By ship.”

  “I see.” Darius paused, his fork posed to skewer a square of fish. Ronja swallowed, wiping her clammy palms on her napkin. The man sighed, his elbows sagging to the table. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”

  Ronja shrugged offhandedly. She picked up her fork and used it to dice her fish into smaller pieces. It was as soft as butter. “How am I supposed to know?” she asked, careful to keep her eyes on her food.

  “Good question.” Darius coughed, or maybe it was a forced chuckle. “I have about as much experience being a father as you have having one.”

  Ronja tightened her grip on her fork. “A father,” she repeated tensely, raising her eyes to meet his. “You’re a stranger. How do I even know you’re telling the truth?”

  Darius stared at her blankly, his lips parted. If she did not know better, she would say he looked wounded. “Did . . . did your mother never tell you about me?”

  Ronja let out a cold laugh. The bitterness that had long festered in her chest was bubbling up into her mouth. “No, she never mentioned you.” Darius wilted. Ronja looked down at her plate. She stabbed a steamed carrot and put it in her mouth, swallowing it whole. It slid down her throat like a hot pebble. “If she had been well, she probably would have said something,” she conceded begrudgingly.

  “Well?” Darius asked, straightening up. “What do you mean? Is Layla all right?”

  Dread enveloped Ronja. She set her utensils down gingerly. A log snapped on the fire behind her. She could feel the man watching her intently, but could not stomach the sight of him.

  “We both have stories to tell,” he finally said. “We have years to catch up on. Lifetimes.”

  Again, Ronja did not respond. The colors of her plate blurred before her, smearing like wet paint.

  “I would very much like to know about you,” Darius said quietly. “And if you want, I can tell you my story.”

  Ronja picked up her fork and knife mechanically, still not looking at him. She impaled a piece of fish and stuck it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, allowing the flavor to sink in. She swallowed, then raised her eyes to Darius. “You first.”

  23: Layla

  “I was born five years before the implementation of The Mu
sic, when Revinia was still a monarchy.” Darius raised his crystal glass to his lips and took a sip, observing Ronja over the rim. “I was the second son of King Perseus IV. My older brother, Perseus V, was first in line for the throne. He died of the retch when I was three.”

  He paused, waiting for Ronja to offer her condolences. She remained mute, sticking another piece of fish in her mouth. It dissolved on her tongue.

  “When I was five, Atticus Bullon rose to power, claiming Revinia as his own. I assume you know of him.”

  “Yeah,” Ronja confirmed. The name still gave her chills, though she knew he was nothing but ashes. “I know him.”

  “I would have hoped your mother would have taught you some of the royal history,” Darius muttered. “Never mind that. When Bullon declared himself The Conductor—ridiculous name if you ask me—he sent his men after our family. All of us, not just the king.”

  Darius paused again, his eyes falling to his wine. Ronja scarfed down some more rice to distract herself from the phrase our family.

  “My father had friends in Tovaire,” he went on. “Allies to the crown. One of them was the commander of the Kev Fairla at the time, Kostya. My father knew he was going to die. The enemy was at the palace steps. They had set the grounds on fire, a ring around the entire estate. My father decided to surrender to save the rest of us.”

  “He sounds brave,” Ronja said. She took a swig of her wine to avoid eye contact. It was dry and heavy and would go straight to her head, if she were not careful.

  “He was,” Darius agreed solemnly. “Before he turned himself in, he crowned me King of Revinia.” He smiled distantly, the corners of his greenish eyes crinkling. “One of the guards put the crown on my head and it slipped down to my nose.”

  Ronja raised an eyebrow. “How old were you?”

  “Seven.” He grinned cheekily, flashing two rows of marble teeth. “What did you do when you were seven?”

  Ronja set down her glass with more force than was necessary. The dark red liquid sloshed back and forth, a few droplets leaping over the rim. “I took care of my cousins and mother.”

  “Ah.” Darius frowned. “Layla, what happened to her?”

  She shook her head. “Go on.”

  He sighed, then picked up where he left off. “As soon as I was crowned, my father sent me with his most trusted guard, Levi, to flee the palace. Levi was Tovairin by descent, he knew the way across the sea. Father drafted a letter to Commander Kostya explaining the situation, loaded up a trunk with enough gold to last a lifetime, and sent us into the storm drains below the palace.”

  Ronja flicked a breadcrumb off the table.

  “How we made it to the docks, I’ll never know. But we got there. When we arrived at the ship, we found it too was full of riches.” He shook his head in bittersweet awe. “He must have been planning it for months.”

  Darius leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a sigh. “So we set off for Tovaire. I remember standing at the bow of the ship, watching my home disappear. The palace was on fire, and the sky was almost bright, the flames were so high. That was the last time I saw Revinia for twenty years.”

  Ronja maintained her silence, scrutinizing Darius with guarded eyes. She had always had a knack for weeding out liars. There were no alarm bells blaring in her head. He was telling the truth, or at least what he believed to be the truth. “Why did you go back to Revinia?” she inquired.

  “Curiosity. Rebellion. I grew up with the Kev Fairla. They taught me to fight, to bargain, to be a man. But I was never one of them. Never received any reshkas. Commander Kostya was a man of his word. He kept me alive and comfortable. In return, my fortune helped fund their wars.”

  “Why not just kill you and take the money?” Ronja asked bluntly. “Seems like a lot less trouble.”

  “The Kev Fairla are not in the business of murdering children,” Darius said, a faint edge entering his tone.

  “No, just enslaving innocents.”

  “Arexis did the same,” he pointed out. “As did Revinia.”

  Ronja narrowed her eyes at him, her meal forgotten. “That makes it better?”

  “No.” Darius gave a slow shake of his head. “Not in the slightest.”

  Ronja dipped a piece of bread in the sweet sauce that drenched the vegetables.

  “Commander Kostya provided me a comfortable life. Mentorship, friendship, purpose, safety,” the man went on. “In my younger days I even helped them defend the island at the end of the Coal Wars. But Tovaire was never home. As I grew older, I yearned to return to my homeland, my birthright.”

  Ronja snorted in disbelief. “Why would you willingly go to that hellhole?”

  “When I was a child, it was a wonder of the world.” His expression glazed over with nostalgia. “Untouched by The Great War, a beacon of artistic expression and innovation. Equality prevailed, peace reigned. It was a wonderful place to grow up.”

  “For a prince, maybe.”

  “I’ll admit it had its dark sides,” Darius allowed with a grave nod. “Some had it easier than others, though the slums did not exist when I was a child. Nor did the wall. People came and went as they pleased, though in all honesty it was one of the safest places to live on the planet, so few chose to leave.”

  Ronja rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was difficult to imagine Revinia without its behemoth black wall. It was even harder to picture it as some sort of glowing metropolis. Darius continued his tale before the image could solidify in her mind.

  “When I was twenty-six, I stole a ship and sailed back to the Arexian border. Looking back, I was lucky I chose not to dock at port. I dropped anchor in an inlet nearby. Red Bay, I think they called it.”

  Ronja, who had been taking a sip of her drink, choked.

  “Are you all right?” Darius exclaimed over her hacking coughs.

  She waved him off, using her sleeve to wipe the wine from her chin. “Go on,” she wheezed, blinking back hot tears.

  Darius gave her a strange look, then pressed on. “It was a three-day walk to the city limits. I’ll never forget seeing that wall for the first time—it was like seeing death. But in the end, I think it just made me more hot-headed. It felt like a challenge.”

  Ronja put her hands in her lap, clenching her napkin until her fingers ached.

  “I hopped on the back of a farming truck and hid under a tarp,” Darius said, oblivious to her sizzling temper. “Luck must have been on my side—they missed me at the checkpoint. Once we cleared the wall, I jumped out into what I soon learned were the slums. It was horrifying.” He shook his head. “I had seen war, living and fighting with the Kev Fairla, but this was a different level of suffering. How people survived in such desolation, I’ll never know.”

  “The Singers help,” Ronja answered flatly.

  “Which I realized as soon as I hit the ground,” Darius agreed with a nod. “The Music was barely a whisper when I was a child. No one thought it would happen, no one thought The Conductor would rise to power. He was a madman on the fringes of the parliament. But once I saw the Singers, I knew what they were.” He looked her straight in the eye and smiled. “I am thankful you grew up away from all that.”

  Ronja barked a laugh, then swallowed it. The king was not laughing. In fact, he was utterly solemn. “Wait,” she said slowly. “You’re serious?”

  “Well . . . ” Darius cleared this throat. “I suppose you were affected on some level, but I hoped growing up in the Anthem with your mother would shield you from the worst.”

  Ronja felt her blood still in her veins. Her heart seized. Her lungs crystallized. She opened her mouth, grasping at words that no longer held meaning.

  “Ronja,” Darius said from far away. “Are you all right?”

  “The . . . Anthem?”

  “Yes, the Anthem,” Darius repeated, sounding somewhat bewildered. He reached across the table to take her hand. “Are you ill, darling?”

  Ronja shot to her feet, knocking
her chair flat on its back and sending her fork clattering to the floor. Shadows swelled in her vision. She began to back toward the exit. Darius followed, his hands stretched before him as if to embrace her.

  “Don’t touch me!” she spat as her spine struck the door. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  “Ronja, darling—”

  “Don’t call me darling!”

  “Ronja,” Darius corrected himself, coming to a stop a good three feet from her. His hands were still raised. Not to embrace her, she realized, but to guard himself. “This is just a misunderstanding. I knew your mother was a member of the Anthem, I thought that after I was taken back to Tovaire, she would have stayed. I suppose with the money I left—”

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WE ALMOST STARVED EVERY WINTER! DON’T YOU GET THAT?”

  “No,” Darius said pleadingly. “Please, tell me.”

  “YOU’RE A BLOODY LIAR!” Ronja jabbed a trembling finger at him. “My mother was a mutt, do you hear me? She was sick and twisted and she made my life hell! I lived with a mutt Singer for nineteen years!” She yanked back her hair to reveal her white scar, all that remained of her ear. Sick satisfaction ripped through her when Darius gasped audibly. “She died! Right in front of me! Victor Westervelt murdered her!”

  Darius tripped backward, gripping the edge of the table for support. “Entalia, geresh vies,” he murmured. “I had no idea. I thought the Anthem would protect—”

  “SHUT UP!” Ronja shrieked. “My mother was never part of the Anthem! Someone would have told me! Someone . . . ” Her thoughts dissolved her words.

  Only the most dangerous criminals were turned into mutts. Their minds were stripped, their bodies defiled, their families outfitted with powerful Singers to keep them in check. Eventually, their unnatural genetic material would unravel, killing them slowly. Petty criminals were beaten or imprisoned. Murderers were executed.

  Traitors to The Conductor were turned into mutts.

  Ronja felt her knees go weak. Her field of vision shrank to a pinhead. Distantly, she heard Darius calling her name. How? How had she not seen it before? Maybe she had always known. Somehow, Layla had always been defiant. To her last breath she fought her Singer. It made her wicked, abusive. Rage was all that could bleed through The Music. But she should have been a vegetable, a mindless slave to The Conductor with a decaying body.